


Serendipity (or Calamity)

by FyerFyer



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Dungeons & Dragons Online, dragon - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Anonymity, Blood and Gore, Dragons, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Dungeons & Dragons References, F/F, Family Issues, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Humor, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, LGBTQ Themes, LGTBQ Character, Lesbian Character, Letters, Magic, Monsters, Morbid, Music, Musical References, Musicians, Mystery, Nerdiness, Original Character(s), Pen Pals, Philosophy, Romance, Secret Identity, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Strangers, Unconventional Relationship, Violence, Violins, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26151589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyerFyer/pseuds/FyerFyer
Summary: One miserable creature sent an angry letter skyward. Another miserable creature, completely by accident, intercepted it. Thus began an unprecedented conversation; bizarre, beautiful, and, perhaps, tinged with peril. After all, anonymous exchanges can only continue for so long before the messengers catch glimpses of who (or what) waits at the other end of the pen. They may not like what they find or, perhaps worse still, like it entirely too much.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	1. To the repugnant, parasitic traitor I am loath to call brother,

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer- I do not own D&D and expect no profit from this endeavor
> 
> *Rating may change later
> 
> WARNINGS- Detailed descriptions of violence.

To the repugnant, parasitic traitor I am loath to call brother,

What wretched pleasure must you derive from my ire to act with such audacity? You abscond wordlessly into the night with what little coin we possess then, three weeks later, dare request more while you frolic about some exotic locale. You would implore me to sell my violin so that you might squander those funds upon drink, women, and unsound business ventures. That instrument is my voice and the closest I have ever come to taking a lover. To sell it is to sell my soul. Have I read your letter incorrectly or are you truly so asinine?

Tell that pompous, pus-sucking son of a quaggoth you fraternize with that the font has run dry. I’m certain he and his cutlass will understand. I shall not, however, condemn myself to further misery on your behalf. Gamble someone else’s life away. Should you return, I am inclined to cut you open and craft strings from your intestines. Perhaps I’ll hire a necromancer so that you might watch me play the Pagarre caprices on them. Pity I’ve no longer the funds to spare. May you be dragged to the underdark and betrothed to an exceptionally libidinous aboleth.

Love,  
The sister who will not attend your wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The music links at the end of chapters are by no means necessary to comprehension or enjoyment of the story. They are simply a chance to get to know the characters and the instruments they love. If you don’t care for this type of music, that’s okay. I won’t condemn anyone for having for their preferences or disliking my own. If you have reached the pinnacle of music nerdom, forgive me for selecting some pieces you have definitely heard before. The classics are classic for a reason. They may delight an unfamiliar audience and perhaps you will find something new and wonderful in a fresh listen. 
> 
> *Caprice No. 24 (Paganini)   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UcL0IsklM3M


	2. To the scribe of a most scathing (and entertaining) letter,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer- I do not own D&D and expect no profit from this endeavor.

To the scribe of a most scathing (and entertaining) letter,

I regret to inform you that your gem of incandescent rancor never reached its intended recipient. Nonetheless, I am certain your words would have stuck terror into the feeble heart of their victim. This fiasco of a messenger bird is to blame for the error. He is either half blind or the very pinnacle of reckless ineptitude. The entirety of the firmament sprawled before the daft animal and he dove directly into my eye.

Despite irritation on my part, your bird suffered the vast brunt of the impact. Healing magic is hardly my forte and I typically could not be bothered with such a trivial patient (let alone one who would so imprudently nest upon my brow in recovery). Notwithstanding, your fervent devotion to music inspires the sublime kinship that unities all musicians in transcendental harmony. Thus, from one artist to another, I offer this single kindness. That and my life has proven insufferably dull as of late. How could I disregard an opportunity to correspond with the future sister-in-law of an aboleth?

In utmost seriousness, however, may I recommend you a suitable necromancer? I sense you are unexperienced in the appraisal of such professionals and the particular quality of reanimation you require demands some finesse. Many lesser necromancers will simply render the corpse an undead drone, devoid of intellect and memory, or worse, interested solely in slaughter. I imagine you desire the intact mind of your abhorred sibling (and, additionally, to evade slaughter). This is a more complex affair best left to powerful and practiced individuals. If you do happen to regain your wealth, consider Dragonborn, Arres of Bansville, for the task. I have employed his services in the past and can attest to his skill (though I advise against mentioning my approval to him, lest you inflame his already swollen ego).

Furthermore, I must express my curiosity regarding your unorthodox string-making techniques. I have experimented with behir gut in the production of strings for an octobass but have not, as of yet, attempted to process matter from any sentient humanoid for musical purposes. Based on your fine handwriting and violin proficiency, I assume you are, at least, roughly humanoid. In the event that your brother returns, I bid you regale me with the proceedings. The resultant instrument would surely vary remarkably in timbre compared to the traditional catgut. I also grant my respect for venturing to play the Pagarre caprices. Their monstrous difficulty makes the aforementioned behir seem mild in comparison.

Sincerely,  
A fellow musician

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Toccata and Fugue in D minor, BWV 565 (Bach)   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DH6lYHWz2yY


	3. To the one who received my acerbic message,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer- I do not own d&d and expect no profit from this endeavor

To the one who received my acerbic message, 

Deepest gratitude for healing Maron, my messenger bird. He is, as you suspected, an utter moron. He is also, presently, the only companion I possess, despite intellectual shortcomings. To lose him on the whim of rage would have been pathetic indeed. Furthermore, I cannot fathom why you insist your healing skills are mediocre. I have never seen such fine work (then again, I see very little in the way of magical traffic).

That you were privy to my venomous tirade elicits inexpressible embarrassment. Know that my threats are entirely hyperbolic. Fratricide is illegal in the realm. Most homicide is. Truthfully, I cannot tell if your morbid commentary stems from a place of sarcasm or sincerity. Mildly put, you intrigue me. You also disturb me. Both are preferable to the humdrum routine that dominates my village. Crippling boredom may be our common foe. 

Your casual talk of murder and reanimation does evoke a certain unease such that I am tentative to reveal my name. Caution dictates that I should refrain from penning this letter, lest it be traced to the source. However, your exquisite description of musical camaraderie caused my long unmoved heart to shudder in ecstacy and bade me write on. Beyond the pages of literary masterworks, no one has spoken such beauty to me. For that and mutual love of music, I am glad my Maron erred in his course and delivered those indignant words to you. 

If you would be amenable to respond, I do have a few inquiries. Your talk of monsters and dragonborn necromancers gives the impression of one well traveled. My knowledge of that great expanse is, unfortunately, entirely theoretical. I lack the capacity to brave any dire quest but that which exists within the pages of a manuscript. 

Are you an adventuring bard, perchance? A wizard, mayhaps? For what purpose did you employ the necromancer, Arres of Bansville? How on Toril did you manage to acquire behir gut? To slay a creature that may claim to be the bane of dragonkind is no meager feat. What properties sprung from such exotic strings? Furthermore, what marvel of music is an octobass? 

Should you elect not to answer my queries, I would not fault you. Wariness of strangers is only healthy and weariness of childish inquisition is hardly condemnable either. In any case, I swear to you that I am not an evil bard who crafts instruments from the bodies of her enemies. If I were, my brother would have perished long ago. To be candid, I am not entirely certain what course I might take should he appear upon my threshold once more. May you receive this message in all wellness. 

From,

A grateful and curious paramour of the arts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Introduction and Tarantella, Op. 43 (Sarasate)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JkxZL4tMhds


	4. To the evil bard who crafts instruments from the bodies of her enemies,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own D&D and expect no profit from this endeavor.

To the evil bard who crafts instruments from the bodies of her enemies, 

I implore you not apologize for your impassioned words. They were written with a piquant zeal yet untasted for many a dreary year. My palate, parched, is now aroused, though not, I posit, quenched. Fret not upon offending my delicate sensibilities with grisly imagery for I am, surely, more frightful. No crime, however heinous, could persuade me to report you to some priggish paladin lest I commit hypocrisy. In fact, I resolve to remain unbeholden to any law of the realm. I find them limiting and fraught with contradiction. 

Your wariness has merit, I thus confess. Yet, that you wrote me twice confirms, to my delight, that curiosity has triumphed over trepidation. In respect for your caution, I shall not seek to extract a name or dwelling place. Likewise, I shall retain anonymity. Your queries are not resented but relished for it seems an age has passed since I have been so directly addressed without hostility. 

I am no bard or wizard, though music and magic do enthrall me so. In youth, I traveled far and wide alongside two mighty allies; my sister and our once-mutual friend. Our trio surveyed vast and diverse lands, amassing wealth and reveling in the thrill of battle. Alone we were formidable but together our band was seldom matched, young though we were. Alas, such adventures are now ended. We three have settled separately. Still, a recent simmering restlessness has stirred within my breast and led me to the cusp of setting forth to enact some dread design or other. Your unexpected diversion has soothed the imminent inferno. 

Regarding the necromancer, there is no shortage of purposes for which their services might be sought. At times, I desire legions to thwart a particularly irksome foe or defend my stronghold in a period of absence. In others, I admit sole interest in what entertainment the undead provide. Detachable heads offer laudable (though not infinite) comedic value. Note, for example, that the average reanimated dwarvish corpse can support approximately nine transplanted heads upon its shoulders. Add another and it topples as a consequence of its own anatomical absurdity. 

The behir of which you inquire was vanquished, with great cunning, four decades ago as it intruded upon my lands. To mark the arrival of such a creature within one’s territory is a dire thing indeed. This would not be my first encounter with a behir and the last had nearly taken my life. The latest nuisance would certainly come for me with all the murderous rage of its predecessor. 

It is essential to recognize that these are not dumb beasts. Though incomparable in intelligence to dragonkind or even humankind, they are patient and apt to scheming. A behir will not senselessly attack a potent adversary but stage an ambush at a moment of disadvantage. For this moment, the serpentine hunter may endure years of vigil, should the adversary evoke considerable enmity. Knowing this, I devised a trap of my own. 

Though vaguely draconic in appearance, the behir is an exotherm, reliant on the sun’s grace to warm its body. Thus, it was on a frigid eve that I conspicuously left my domain (or so it appeared). The night was thick and starless with a stratus veil shrouding towering peaks. In this cover, I circled back to silently survey the slopes. The wily wretch, intent on entering my empty home so as to lie in wait, began to scale the mountainside. She was a truly monstrous specimen- a match to the ancient behir of legend. Her sinuous scaly muscle wound about the slope like a river torrent and I knew she would not easily succumb. Yet, I, the prudent defender, was supremely prepared. 

My quarry, though a competent climber, was sluggish with cold, unwary, and exposed upon the rocks. At my abrupt descent she hissed, afeared, and made with futile haste to seek some sanctuary. The monster saw, to her dismay, no ground less steep nor cavern shelter could be found. Forced to fight, she clung to the sheer face as we set alight the night with flame and fulmination. Finally, those many claws dislodged by force from stone and the beast, shrieking, plummeted to her grave. By my power and acuity, the quarrel yielded victory. 

The massive skull, now silver gilt, shines within those chambers the serpent once plotted to invade. Her ultramarine hide adorns the covers of tomes and the seat upon which I perch to practice. The gut, to my astonishment, produced stings of a timbre so silky and subtle, I could scarcely believe they came from so harsh a source. 

The instrument to which these strings belong is the largest of the violin family. My octobass, hewn of spruce and rosewood, measures a full three and a half meters in length with strings tuned to C zero, G zero, and D one. Unless you are a giant or troll (unlikely), you would have to stand upon a stool and employ a series of pedals and levers to play it. The lowest fundamental pitch, indiscernible to the ears of elves, dwarves, and humans, would not so much be heard as felt, reverberating within the waters of their flesh. It is a sound that enters into one's very bones- low and slow and lovely.

That dung heap you call brother is low and, perhaps, slow, but the antonym of lovely. You expressed uncertainty regarding your course at the conclusion of the last letter. Allow me to alleviate your indecision. Obliterate him. Relation or not, his thief-blood should spill, not solely for robbing you, but for the audacity which followed. After such treachery he demanded your violin; dearest of all your treasures. The man is both a fool and a coward.

Assuming he disclosed his location in correspondence, I suggest you track him in pursuit of vengeance. Establish your place as the superior sibling with a deathblow. Better yet, greet betrayal with betrayal- fire with fire. Invite him back under whatever pretense is necessary and smite him at the threshold. Take a trophy of his carcass and memorialize your achievement. Mount the remains outside your dwelling so that all who pass may behold proof of your ferocity. I would unleash the same upon my sister, assuming I were able to defeat her. 

If you fear legal retribution for a public display, you might also cremate the corpse after claiming an unassuming prize. I understand you, unlike myself, are bound in social contract, either by choice or weakness. If by choice, I question your motive. Why linger if your village is so detestably dull? You claim to lack the capacity for questing, but what is the basis for this determination? Regardless, you have my piece. May your violin sing and your wrath ignite with anguish the prone heart of your rival. 

Sincerely,

Your magnificent (and modest) advisor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Suite Gothique, Op. 25, Toccata (Boellmann)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0Fj3UD8gBI


	5. To the most violently inclined person I know,

To the most violently inclined person I know, 

Let it not be said that you are lacking in wit, though I suspect your vein of comedy would fall flat in my community. That you find detachable heads so amusing is fortunate, for they might feel compelled to see you decapitated for immorality. However, if you managed to slay a behir, I imagine a collection of farmers armed with hoes and sharpened fence posts would fail to inspire appropriate terror.

Perhaps the grandest occasion ever to occur in my dingy village was the visitation of four acclaimed adventurers- a barbarian, a druid, a sorcerer, and a violinist bard (my childhood hero). As we fed and watered the party, they spun glittering tales that might have sprung from the lines of ancient epics. Your prose reminds me of them. There is artistry in your correspondence- as if language itself were worthy of respect and life itself worthy of art. The people I know sort grain, shovel dung, peddle their wares, and speak no beauty. Perhaps mundane decades of the same routine have numbed their senses and tongues. A farmer is uninclined to paint landscapes whilst he hacks at them with a plow. Likewise, a smith will not hammer the steel of war when the steel of cutlery is in demand. You, in contrast, strike me as someone who could have worn the mantle of villainy in one of the bard’s many recounted adventures.

I say this not with intent to offend. Your perspective is deliciously liberating and honest in a world fraught with self righteous hypocrisy. I would give most anything for the opportunity to live so freely- to leave this stagnant, manure-scented hovel and commit to my passion without fear of starving to death. As it stands, I am poor in resources and rich in responsibility.

You inquired as to my reasons for remaining here and, though it is a dull and dismal affair, I will humor your request. My parents left their modest ancestral lands and livestock to my brother and I. For many years, we were successful enough that I was able to take violin lessons in the neighboring town and my brother could liberally imbibe. Now, between the goat plague and the most recent troll raid, most of that wealth has gone. I was forced to sell much of our pasture and my brother’s selfish impulsivity has done me no favors.

Theoretically, I could part with the lot of this rubbish- the house, the goats, the land- and make my way to the city as a musician. Alas, there is no guarantee of my prospects there. I know nothing of urban life and have heard tell of refugees and hopefuls met only with poverty and grief. Yes, my farm and my future are rubbish. Still, this rubbish is relatively stable and I almost wish that I were brave or foolish enough to discard it for a glimpse of greater dreams.

I wonder if my brother will come crawling back for pity after city life has stripped him of funds. Our parents would have preferred our reconciliation but I concede your criticism rings true. I would deny him forgiveness. When he stole from this house and turned his back on this family he forsook his right to both. Speaking of which, would you truly murder your sister and display her corpse if you could? What wickedness has she delivered to elicit such terrible malice? Perhaps she and my brother are suited to one another. You needn’t tell me all be it a highly personal matter. My queries are merely curiosity. Additionally, I thank you for the advice, though I’m afraid I cannot make use of it for fear of the noose.

As I reflect on previous correspondence, I realize that I have yet to learn your particular musical specialty. You are obviously familiar with string-making techniques and repertoire. Are you, perchance, one of my kind (that is to say, a violinist)? 

From,

Your (considerably more modest) advisee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 35, allegro vivacissimo (Tchaikovsky)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMG_MR-ihis


	6. To her majesty of manure,

To her majesty of manure, 

That you find me fearsome is no insult. In fact, had you not deemed my deeds and demeanor aptly dreadful, I would have been sorely disappointed. Though my presence alone oft suffices to instill horror and awe, I do try. Your kind acknowledgement of my turpitude is appreciated. 

That you take pleasure in my prose is also heartening. Common is not my native tongue and, while some of my species are born with linguistic knowledge, I was not amongst their blessed number. Instead, intellect and diligence have served to compensate. As a music history enthusiast, proficiency in the primary languages of classical and folk composition is essential. Furthermore, the boon of polylingual aptitude cannot be overstated regarding conflict and conference. After all, how am I to intercept enemy correspondence or savor pleas for mercy if their script and speech are indecipherable? That is about as satisfying as terrorizing cattle- a paltry sport for babes and minor monsters. 

Your village sounds entirely uninteresting and, its residents, equally vapid specimens of dung beetle. How did you manage to cultivate such refined interests given the local average? The words goatherd and virtuoso are seldom uttered in the same sentence. I imagine the livestock compose a rather lackluster audience, nevermind ensemble work. Truth be told, when I began learning Common, it never occurred to me that those skills would see use in conversation with the peasantry. My encounters with villages such as yours are generally brief and marked by one-sided enjoyment (mine, of course). 

Have you received recent violin instruction or do you study independently? The agony of parting from a fine maestro is one I know well. My own mentor passed decades ago and I mourn him still. Reanimation was a consideration (expensive but not impossible) yet I could not bring myself to disturb his tranquil deathbed. He lived long for a half-elf, leaving many admirable compositions for posterity. I doubt this century will again witness such glorious counterpoint. Do you hold similar esteem for your master? 

To address an earlier musical query, I play several instruments, including the violin, but my heart belongs to the pipe organ. What euphoria, to command unmatched power and versatility- tempest flowing through a thousand singing pipes or uplifting a single shimmering line. An organ may speak with the most subtle tenderness in one moment only to unleash deafening bellows in the next. Its keys and stops and pedals demand all limbs engage the music with fullest zeal and I gaily give body, mind, and heart that such sublimity might take flight. Indeed, it is truly the king of instruments. 

I suspect you disagree by virtue of your violinist biases. Such loyalty is only natural. Does your violin have a name? Every instrument in my possession is named for each constitutes a voice- a musical identity, awaiting stimulus to reveal itself. Though all are prized, my dearest treasure is the magnificent pipe organ built into the walls of my great chambers. I call her Siakepesk. A keyboardist will play many instruments in their lifetime, rendering us less likely to form attachments to any one in particular. Siakepesk is a special case, for she is my design and I personally oversaw and aided in her construction. With confidence, I proclaim there to be no other pipe organ in the realm that exceeds her scale and uniquely divine timbre. However, the bulk of organists would find my instrument quite impossible to play. She was intended for a musician of considerable stature. 

I would be most interested to know your violin in greater detail. For much of my lifetime, I have collected musical instruments, intrigued by their exquisite design and rich history. My tasteless sister believes this to be an inane pastime, except in the case of outstanding rarity or monetary value. She is blind to worth that cannot be measured in gold or blood. 

You expressed concern regarding our relationship. My people are not so sentimental as yours, I posit. Our families are bound by pride and legacy. We are capable of dedication in parenting and rush to avenge fallen relatives, slain by outsiders. Nevertheless, we are equally likely to partake in the slaying for one reason or another. The mighty are revered. The weak are purged. Enmity amongst siblings is the norm. 

In youth, my sister tolerated my presence at her side because I was useful and deferred to her. Now, she tolerates my existence because I remain uninvolved and inconveniently far from her murderous reach. Once, we were exceptionally close by the standards of our culture- nigh inseparable and, in combat, boasting the clockwork manner of a densely woven fugue. I daresay she harbored a brutal, muted sort of affection for me. 

Yet she was as much a tormentor as an ally. The flavor of my sister’s cruelty is potent and unapologetic and she reveled in pointless, painful displays of dominance.The remaining member of our trio suffered even more than I for his inferiority. Though his species is, indeed, less mighty than our own, I found her treatment somehow irksome. He and I proceeded to scheme and finally escaped her oppressive influence as she recovered from a difficult battle- too weak to pursue us and exact vengeance. Were she not so dangerous, even injured, I would have claimed her life then and there. Needless to say, though our siblings are alike in detestability, mine is more likely to gleefully dismember yours than to befriend him.

How strange it is to write these things. There is shame in them yet our anonymity assuages its burn. I see you not, know you not, yet feel secure in relaying my shortcomings and familial controversies- my rubbish, as you put it. Perhaps your confession aroused my own latent want of disclosure. Retain conviction regarding your brother. Bow not to your forebears or society should they contradict you. Had I not dared deny the familiar comfort of my sister’s company, what length and severity of misery might I have endured? Blood relation aside, those who act as enemies must be treated as no less than enemies- certainly not as allies.

Sincerely,

The queen of instruments (by way of marriage to the king)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Prelude and Fugue in G minor, Op. 7 (Dupre)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V5aUwSxRuD4&feature=emb_logo


	7. To the one I am very glad does not know my address,

To the one I am very glad does not know my address, 

You’re quite rude, you know- undeniably elegant and eloquent but rude, nonetheless. Somehow your discourtesy does not dissuade my hand from writing. You possess a different sort of unpleasantness than is the staple of my village and, for that, I find it not entirely unpleasant. Perhaps my senses, like the other dung beetles, have grown so desperately numb that even pain should be perceived as pleasure. By Selune, it’s ridiculous. 

How did you develop such a preposterously superior attitude? Yes, you’re powerful now but surely this was not always so. Even princes and warlords once soiled their nightclothes and cowered behind their lady mother’s skirts. Are you nobility? That would explain a lot. It’s not everyday that I’m referred to as “the peasantry.” Behir skulls gilt in silver (anything gilt in silver, really) also strike me as luxurious curios. 

I could be wrong for, though I hate to generalize, your description leads me to assume your kind as a whole is callous, pompous, and bloodthirsty. In fact, it paints you, individually, in a rather gentle light (not that I find you frail- only more reasonable than your brethren). Despite your assertion otherwise, I see no shame in escaping an abusive relationship without murdering anyone. Furthermore, your sister sounds like a devil and a boorish one at that. I commend you and your friend both for mustering the courage to leave her. 

Forgive me for asking but did you spend your childhood terrorizing cattle? I’ve never met a babe who indulged in such and wondered if you spoke from personal experience. A neighbor of mine keeps a massive and belligerent bull that I hesitate to make direct eye contact with, let alone terrorize. I suspect you would make short work of him (and the neighbor). Are you very burly? Your handwriting is enormous, though not at all clumsy. I suppose that’s why you designed your own organ console. A gnomish musician once professed to me the difficulty of acquiring a theorbo without either going broke over a custom job or settling for the subpar instrument of a human child. 

Speaking of which, I adore your ardor for the pipe organ. It suits you- grandiose and complex yet capable of delicate intricacy and softness. I sense your ferocity, though remarkable, is tempered by wonder and reflection. My teacher claimed that the organ is ideal for a musician determined to play the entire orchestra simultaneously- fitting for an instrument collector. How did you begin playing? I was under the impression that most organists start in association with the clergy but you don’t strike me as the godly type.

My mentor, bless him, worshipped Oghma with such obsessive piety that I was rightfully peeved that The Lord of Knowledge didn’t appear on his doorstep with a medal, a tin of biscuits, and some inspiration- not that he required more inspiration. Demik was endlessly creative in his interpretation and improvisation. Brilliant and passionate, he was a whirlwind of a man- crowned with a wild white tuft and bizarrely adverse to matching socks. According to his wife, Demik’s fingers twitched rhythmically in sleep- attempting practice, even in unconsciousness. Though sometimes excessive in criticism, I came to understand his harshness was reserved for students in whom he placed sincere faith. After all, an uncommitted, thoughtless louse is hardly worth the fervent hounding. It takes effort to outscream a wyvern. 

If only I had followed him in departure.The troll raids crippled his town, moreso even than mine. Work was scarce. When I became so destitute I could no longer offer coin, he taught me for goat cheese. Still, when employment appeared elsewhere, he leapt at the opportunity and asked if I would accompany him. At the time, I thought I could finish the season and join his company next spring. Little did I know, the plague would sweep through the livestock and my brother through the coffers. 

Though I study alone, my violin remains. I named him Emberceuse- flamed maple and spruce with boxwood fittings. The warmth of the lower register and brilliance of the high suggest that the instrument is probably worth more than my house, though that is hardly a bold statement. My house is trying its best to become a walled garden, based on the state of the roof. 

Supposedly, Emberceuse was crafted by an Elven luthier in Waterdeep (according to the reckless inebriate I won it from). I’m not an avid gambler by any means but, that night, my brother and I were staging a childish revolution against the tyranny of parental guidance. I won a violin. He lost a few coppers. We both suffered sore backsides when mum found out. In hindsight, that night was probably my brother’s introduction to such inadvisable nonsense. He’s cultivated quite a gambling addiction.

We all have our rubbish. We’d like to sweep it up but it usually accumulates instead. Pardon the melodrama but, before your first letter, it seemed as if the world had dimmed to a single burning ember on an ashen vale. Have you ever felt like you spent an entire childhood wrapping yourself in life only to spend the rest of it seeing everything unravel? For me, it occurred in gradual intervals- first my parents, then our properties, then my mentor, and finally, my brother. Each vestige of warmth and security and familiarity, consigned to the ashes until all that flickered in the hearth was my lovely Emberceuse and Maron. 

Then you answered my impulsive, rage-fueled letter and burned so brightly. I hardly know you and trust you less but I cannot tell you how fantastic it feels to speak to someone who might actually give a damn- nameless as you are. Have you kept a confidant since your mentor’s passing? Perhaps you still speak to the friend who traveled by your side in youth. Then again, a musician is never truly alone. You have Siakepesk (that you designed the organ impresses me to no end). What does Siakepesk mean? 

From,

Her almighty majesty of manure, thank you very much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Partita No. 2 in D minor, Chaconne (Bach)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HEbi-7tPaqo


	8. To the ember of a distant hearth,

To the ember of a distant hearth, 

The head of your last letter inflamed a spark of ire ere I remembered you know neither my face nor my reputation. I have been named many foul things by many foul fools but never did they call me rude. In retrospect, your disrespect tickles me. Irreverence and amiability, intertwined, provide a fresh scent amidst the smoke. Speaking of which, do forgive the soot stains on this parchment. I hosted dinner guests with an altogether unhealthy interest in expensive jewelry and, thus, invited them to the fireside for a therapeutic chat. So moved were they that I even extracted a generous donation of funds and horderves. 

In address of my preposterously superior attitude, consider that it stems from superior ability and constitution. Hierarchy is woven inextricably into the divine fabric of nature. A beetle makes way for a boot. A commoner makes way for a commander. I still before the frightful gaze of my ancient and terrible mother- master of all she surveys or would desire to. The mighty are afforded respect and the weak offer it for fear of retribution or hope of reward. That is the law above and behind all laws- one of the few I deign to acknowledge. Do you not also subscribe, however unwilling or unwittingly? 

Compared to most of the realm, I excel in strength, experience, and intellect. Furthermore, I am fabulously wealthy, though not by virtue of noble titles. This success, in part, is sourced to blood- not the arbitrary construct of hereditary leadership but sheer magical and bodily might. The remainder may be attributed to diligence, cunning, and an ample dollop of luck. We are all subject to the whims of entropy for fortune is not a gambler or even a fickle mistress as many claim. Nay, she is a blind, deaf leviathan of ceaseless, senseless flailing. My sister believes in destiny. I believe that I might have just as easily been born a rot grub or perished at the unripe age of twenty. As it stands, I am grateful neither occurred. 

Admittedly, I did terrorize cattle during those tender years. They seemed larger then, as most things do. Adulthood makes the sphere of youth appear unbearably small. Perhaps, with age, even the brutal sprawl of frost-nipt peaks will lay quaint as the plush, rolling hills below. Brief as you are, surely you have marveled at the myriad ephemeralities of existence- seething wave of burgeoning and decay, souls slipping from their amniotic brine into life, then swiftly to their deathbed. Even the stars are, ultimately, mortal and inconstant. Once, I lived with haste. Now, I dedicate miniature eternities to meandering streams of keyboard improvisation and discomfited slumber. 

Amusingly enough, my keyboard studies did, in fact, begin in association with the clergy. Inspiration struck as our trio laid waste to a city that had insulted our dignity. As I approached a Triadian cathedral with vicious intent, the most sublime sound rippled upon the air and, at once, extinguished my rage. All of creation in tandem vibration- how could I silence this voice of voices? It so happened that the organist had not evacuated the premises but was, instead, content to die in the sacred service of music. Unleashed from this sonorous chain, I fled in turmoil. My sister was furious, demanding reason for my weakness which, to her dismay, I could not, at the time, express. 

The memory haunted me. It was as if the dawn had broken o’er bleak, primordial night and gifted radiant clarity to my misty mind. Rampant want was no stranger yet here was longing more poignant than any I had known. To somehow capture this ethereal grace for myself- that would be the pinnacle of rapture. Clandestinely, I experimented with polymorphing spells, careful to evade my sister’s unforgiving eye. When the time was right, I returned to the city I had once sought to punish and reunited with the musician whose life I had spared- my maestro. It was the kindest stroke of serendipity. 

Your mentor sounds charming, albeit religiously fanatical, and his harshness, entirely appropriate. The ease of music does not increase with practice, only a musician’s ability to practice difficult techniques and repertoire with sensitivity. Lyros made no exceptions for me, despite my persistent bluster and menace. The half-elf was singularly unafraid of harm- a quality both infuriating and fascinating. Perhaps, after facing, and subsequently eluding, death by my choler, I ceased to intimidate him. Perhaps I never daunted him at all. Either way, his absurdity was fortunate. It wouldn’t do for a master to fear their student. 

Emberceuse is a splendid name for a violin. There are a multitude of fine luthiers in Waterdeep- true paragons of their craft. The best of them designed instruments marked, not only by extraordinary tone, but optimized to channel the talent of bards. A small portion are even endued with enchantments, ranging from simple magics for tuning and amplification to musical memories implying sentience. For example, one viola was designed to induce a blissful dreamstate in all but the instrumentalist, rendering it entirely unsuited for concert repertory. However, it was rumored successful in the quelling of various peasant revolts, overzealous flagellant rituals, and unruly toddlers. 

This being said, I am fairly familiar with The Luthier's Guild of Waterdeep and could almost certainly determine the origin of your violin, should it please you to send a parcel of information. If Emberceuse is of this stock, you will find a series of letters in the interior. Send them to me. They are representative of the instrument’s creator, year of completion, and advanced properties, if applicable. I would be elated to grant my expertise that a violinist might uncover the heritage of their prized instrument. 

My longtime ally is similarly inclined regarding quality plate armor, provided the prospect of stealing it does not prove more enticing. You claim your sole companion is this feathery nitwit, Maron, who prances about my shoulder with all the grace of a bugbear on pointe. Mine is a conniving fusspot who calls himself Vivek The Verdant (because he is perpetually green with envy and, for all his genius, too boring for innovative names). After my sister’s oppression, it cheers me to witness his pursuit of independent interests but I shall never wholly comprehend his particular breed of avarice and meddlesome mayhem. 

Vivek is gratified by continual politicking and frivolous economic exploits. He invests, bribes, administrates, wasting wealth to admire the flow of value through society’s fickle, feverishly trickling veins. He has painstakingly sewn complex social circles of buzzing mayflies- weaving, ensnaring, unraveling, consuming, and collecting connections (coveted and disposable alike). I cannot possibly recall his endless string of proxies. Clever politicking may be profitable and, occasionally, necessary but, in excess, becomes petty and tiresome. It offers neither the primal ecstasy of outright destruction nor the profundity of music.

Nonetheless, though my sister would perish ere admission, we owe our lives to his mind. It pleased her to rule a creature of such intelligence, I posit. Nowadays, Vivek and I rarely visit but his company would be welcome, should he deign to honor me with more than middling messengers. He is less scrutinizing and bellicose than those of my line. Failure to impress him is a dreadful embarrassment but likely not a death warrant. Furthermore, shared experience has endowed us with a rare mutual empathy. 

Perhaps I should seek him for conversation. In the languishing despondence of uninspired composition and directionless umbrage, I forgot the pleasure of camaraderie. You wrote of your world as a dying ember. Gradually, a dwindling has taken place in me as well. I find it peculiar, for despite steady advancement in wealth and stature, my spirit ebbs dimly across a plateau of decades. My muse is stale, my wrath erratic and unfocused. I have devolved into a performer without a stage- a flame without kindling. I fluctuate between listlessness and unnameable craving, tempestuously writhing within- an enormous, bruised thunderhead, roaring and rumbling. Sometimes, Siakepesk is a balm and voice for this turmoil. It is befitting, I think, for her name means “my storm.”

I would also clarify that I did not escape an abusive relationship without murdering anyone. My sister's injury was preceded by a great deal of carnage on the field of battle. Thus, it was actually by virtue of a particularly strenuous bout of murder that Vivek and I were able to escape at all.

Sincerely,

The one who could very well know your address if they cared to follow your idiot bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Symphony No. 5, Toccata (Widor)   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9EARLp9YXJg


	9. To the murderous church organist,

To the murderous church organist,

Your cynical worldview is rather rigid for one who disdains the laws of the realm. Must it always be a question of power or impotence? Can the boot not step o'er instead of on the beetle? Can the commander amongst commoners not abide by simple foot traffic? Is one not elevated by composure and consideration as opposed to senseless tromping outrage? Furthermore, though hierarchy is, indeed, natural, I cannot presume that any sentient species is truly superior to another. Each is possessed of certain innate or learned tendencies but those differences are no indication of inherent worth as a kind and certainly not as an individual. As you have ere acknowledged, not all wealth may be measured in gold or blood. 

A halfling inevitably lacks the brute strength of an orc and the average orc will not match dwarven cunning. The tabaxi cannot dive like the locathah who, in turn, cannot perform acrobatic feats on dryland. Species may be inferior concerning specific traits or tasks but that does not render them lesser creatures, overall. It also fails to account for exceptional individuals who deviate from the conventions of their kind or culture. 

Speaking of which, never have I heard anyone describe their mother as ancient and terrible. Perhaps I did occasionally think my mother dear an unjust hag. She bade me select my own birch for punishment and stung more fiercely should I pick a puny switch. In sincerity, she and papa were good and gentle folk. I merely perceived injustice for I, like all small children, was selfish and shortsighted. Was your mother as cruel as your sister? I find the most rotten parents produce the most rotten progeny (not that I find you rotten). I'm curious as to the specific evils your sibling thrust upon you, though, as always, there exists no obligation to answer. Your sister probably believes in destiny because it provides validation. People with power chalk it up to divine right because it sounds a lot more legitimate and poetic than the universe shat some good luck into my great grandfather's lap. What of your father? Is he also master of all he surveys or would desire to? 

I can scarcely imagine wielding the might to seek vengeance against an entire city- hundreds, thousands, maybe tens of thousands swept up in my warpath. What atrocity had they committed against you? An insult to your dignity seems rather vague and petty, considering the subsequent destruction. Pray thee not assume I intend on launching a criminal career but I do wonder what it must be like to kill someone. I wasn't witness to my parent's demise, though I did discover their bodies ere first light after their final night. 

My only tangible experience lies in butchering goats but I suspect that's not quite the same. The animals are not disagreeable company (despite distaste for the goatherding profession) but they are not exactly someone in the sense that you and I are. Knights and adventurers speak of death with hazy grandeur- a churning phantasmagoria of smiting, blood gushing forth like a hot, crimson geyser. "And then I smote him," sounds so cavalier and impersonal, though perhaps detachment is the point. In my case, butchering is probably the most vexing part of labour (though I don't relish chasing strays down freezing, muddy hillsides either). I might form a different sort of bond with my herd if I didn't regularly sell and consume them. To love livestock as a friend is akin to prearranged tragedy. 

You should seek Vivek The Verdant. Complaints aside, it is clear you miss him, politicking and all. The boon of shared experience and mutual empathy, as you call it, is so very precious. Maron may be a messenger bird but I prefer his company to the village for he lacks their judgmental airs. He is my Vivek, though a markedly more dimwitted one. Seeing as we are amongst the myriad ephemeralities, slipping swiftly to our deathbeds, it would be imprudent to dawdle when presented with a bond of substance. 

Perhaps this is the gist of the gale which buffets you- the unnamed, unassuaged craving. Fearsome and magnificent or not, we all require companions, mentors, even lovers to offer a modicum of mirth and tenderness. Have you ever taken a lover? I am presently in a committed romantic relationship with Emberceuse and those who would infringe must obtain his approval (not that any desire to infringe upon the affair of a lonely goatherd and her violin). Mum was enthusiastic about my prospects but, since her passing, I have dedicated scant thought to the subject. Our family status has since deteriorated and the men here are a dull, scruffy lot more interested in birthing hips than decent conversation, let alone the arts. I have never understood the appeal of their manly features anyway. The violin is more than sufficient, boasting a prettier voice and less offensive odor.

I admit a flutter of delirious excitement at the possibility of uncovering Emberceuse's mysterious origins. Following my mentor's failure at the task, I resigned myself to eternal ignorance. With these letters- UslNt232A- hope is revived. The instrument's fine craftsmanship was never in question but I had not ere considered the likelihood of magical properties. Perhaps this seems pathetic to one so accomplished as yourself but I am given to wondering if I might be a background character in someone else's epic. 

The world brims richly with magic yet only the slightest dewdrops of splendor gather in the shade of this rubbish little town. All that remain are dried up tales of adventure spun at the inn by drunkards and the scarce haughty wanderer, uninterested in anything without an obscenely abundant bosom. During childhood, when that gallant band stopped to sup and retire, the beyond was, for an instant, opened and a torrent of beauty spilled forth from its beckoning lip. As the quartet departed for greener pastures, it was just as swiftly sealed. The thought that I might possess the smallest parcel of that magical beyond is almost too much to fathom, so I had best not dream too extravagantly. Tis better to be pleasantly surprised than unexpectedly disappointed. 

If you could be something other than what you are, who would you be? I would certainly deign to become a virtuosic violinist bard, fearlessly traversing the great expanse in search of inspiration and audience. My music would touch the hearts and enkindle the minds of emperors and cloud giants, aarakocra sages and starry eyed children awaiting a catalyst for musical passion. 

You claim to be a performer without a stage. What is stopping you from simply finding one? Surely you have resources to travel and skill to attract the masses. One with the means to build and house the world's most spectacular pipe organ must be capable of booking the average concert venue a dozen times over. Do you, perchance, suffer stage fright? My mentor confessed that, even after fifty four years of practice, he still succumbed to the occasional bout of shaky bow. Until this evening, I believed the stars immortal beacons. Imperfection, it seems, is a universal affliction. 

Sincerely,

A lonely goatherd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Darshan Partita for solo violin, 3- Charukeshi (Esmail)   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ArzRqKm_seU


	10. To an astonishingly fortunate mayfly,

To an astonishingly fortunate mayfly,  


I am sorely tempted to discard with anonymity and track Maron in pursuit of your violin. Alas, I am also loath to end our bracing correspondence prematurely. My impatience is not such that I cannot await your expiration via natural (or unnatural) causes before claiming this prize. In fact, do inform me if you expect to be murdered for I am not opposed to avenging you in the regrettable event of homicide. I doubt you are capable of attracting a veritably challenging foe but vengeance is, nonetheless, a thrilling sport. Your measly enemies will not anticipate the likes of me and promptly soil themselves on sight- delightful.

I bid you take pride in the legacy of your instrument. The ale-pustule that gambled it was a greater imbecile than two kobolds riding a shield down Mount Hotenow. Emberceuse was born in rimy Nightal of the year 232 WY (1264 DR) by the hand of a gifted luthier known as Usilus. A majority of his creations were completed on auspicious dates, usually solstices, equinoxes, and other periods of notable syzygy in order to harness celestial properties. I posit this violin was a product of the winter solstice.

Usilus was responsible for a great number of famous instruments. For instance, he crafted a gamba for the legendary bard, Shostel Ruv, who played for twelve days and twelve nights to distract the Thistle King while his allies staged a coup. In my possession is another piece- a cello that, in competent hands, can summon rains aplenty to drench the dustiest desert. Of course, I cannot omit the esteemed master Avesh Fi and her gorgeous viol. While entirely untouched by magic, her resplendent musicality weaved a spellwork all its own, augmented by the luthier's fine craft.

Your instrument is endued with a peculiar quality known as Ansrivarrem- translated from Elvish to Common as “in memory” or, depending on the context, “heritage.” Emberceuse may grant a musician access to knowledge of that which was played before and, perchance, even traces of the minds who previously owned the violin. It is a power enhanced by age as many virtuosi enrich the instrument’s musical memory. Have you ever experienced strange visions or unfamiliar emotions during practice? Perhaps inspiration divergent from your usual style? Emberceuse may be attempting to speak through you.

Assuming you are, in fact, able to commune (not all are predisposed), your violin may offer additional perspective on the brevity and insignificance of most life as well as the precarious nature of power. After all, it is an antique object that has, no doubt, seen much. You asked why the lofty commanders of this world do not simply acquiesce to the convenience of those beneath. I once conversed with a lamia noble who undertook years of exploration in the Underdark after expulsion from her territory. As we dined, she recounted the tale of a beholder, formerly exalted for his strength and influence.

Thrassk, as he was called, had finally triumphed o’er the factions with whom he held lengthy enmity. Foes crippled and scattered, he returned to his comfortable lair to enjoy hard won victory. When a teensy boggle carrying a golden fork appeared in the tunnels, Thrassk briefly considered destroying the pest. However, he concluded that it was far too small and weak to be of consequence. The beholder was thoroughly exhausted from years of relentless scheming and the beastie’s minor antics were deemed harmless. Thrassk had conquered manticores, ulitharids, and duergar armies. What was a lone boggle and his shiny fork to a tyrant such as this?

Unaware was he that the invader was an agent of his vengeful rivals, bitter in defeat. Every day, the boggle chipped steadily away at the foundations of the sprawling lair and was paid no heed. So ingeniously precise was this process that the tunnels remained intact until a single destabilizing act prompted the collapse of the entire cave system. The beholder, prey to this unexpected deluge of destruction, found himself utterly incapacitated. Gravely wounded, he lay at the mercy of the grinning boggle, armed with the golden fork that had served as half a bribe for the task. The intruder then seized the remainder of his reward, one by plucking and consuming the multitudinous eyes of his victim. The mighty Thrassk, once master of his domain and destiny, was left to die, blind and helpless, weeping blood from empty sockets.

The great remain so, not merely by virtue of exceptional power, but by prudent application of said power. A boggle is a frail, cowardly creature. Had Thrassk annihilated it with a death ray or even shooed it off with a flash of fangs, he may have enjoyed several additional decades. Awesome power is wasted if ne’er displayed for only in this way can one glean true respect and security. Mercy may yield debt or goodwill but it also signifies weakness to those without a similarly softened edge.

Your view concerning the equality of all sentient life may ring true within a certain range but you speak of a narrow subset. It is one thing to compare humans to halflings but what is any man to a storm giant? What is a giant to a great wyrm? What is wyrm to the goddess Tiamat? Perhaps, as my sister validates herself with notions of destiny, you console yourself with notions of equality. It is ludicrous to measure the worth of beings that exist for a hundred years against those who exist for a thousand.

My formidable mother is the very pinnacle of her kind- fierce, colossal, opulent, and wise. In some distant future, I intend to surpass her glory. For this, she will loathe and love me both. She cherished her brood, protecting and guiding us, for we symbolize an extension of her long-enduring might. There dwelled no such affection for my father whom she killed in a financial spat. He was highly respectable but, ultimately, unable to withstand the wrath of his consort. Did your parents quarrel? You insist they were good and gentle folk but the trials of child rearing are apt to provoke even the most benign creatures.

Despite lethal fury, I would not call mother excessive in her cruelty. She was ruthless, yes, but age had cleansed her of that petty propensity towards aimless outbursts. Her children were subject to a calculated harshness that would endow us with ideal vigor and fortitude. My sister is another breed altogether. An abridged litany of her evils against me would constitute its own letter.

I recall an unnerving habit cultivated whilst we curled beside our mother in respite. As unconsciousness took me, she would threaten heinous mutilation in a dulcet whisper. At times, I slept quite poorly. Though I suspected her of jesting, there remained a tinge of fear that she might wrest the tongue from my jaw, bite off my twitching toes, or roast my eyeballs in their sockets. Many years later, there would come a grim reminder of this malicious pastime.

While inklings of discontent already faintly stirred, I did not begin to plot against my sister in earnest until she badly burned Vivek. It was not her first pyromaniacal offense but it was, by far, the most severe. There was no discernible cause. He had merely closed his eyes to bask in the morn when she, restless and irate, sought pleasure in his pain. His screams rent the firmament. Momentarily, it seemed her patience with him had gone and she would see to his death. As I tore her away, she laughed at her scorched and gasping handiwork. Vivek was our truest and most worthy ally and she had pointlessly scarred him. My sister believes that we betrayed her. If she were capable of introspection, she might realize the depth of her own perfidy.

I am undeniably sadistic, egoistic, avaricious, and utterly unrepentant. However, I am not blind to beauty nor would I squander a rapport with my most valuable asset. Did your inane ratbag of a brother torment you as well? All siblings are probably loathsome ulcers of the soul in some respect. May we outlive them and dance an ebullient galliard upon their grave.

You may find this a disappointment but, practically speaking, the butchering of men is not so different from the butchering of goats. Death, like imperfection, is fairly universal in its various forms. An animal, afeared, may bleat and thrash. Another may succumb to shock- frozen, as if in anticipation of rigor mortis. Lifeblood wells from the chinks in scales or plate armor, congeals in fur or hair- the coarsest wool or the finest silk. In death, at least, equality reigns. The sentiments and sensations involved in slaughter are situational. For example, in the heat of battle, especially against multiple opponents, one may not even acknowledge a deathblow. The next barbarian who visits your inn, claiming to have kept a killcount on a major battlefield, is a liar. Survival oft necessitates an unbroken stream of action and reaction, like music, enabled by diligent practice. Reflection is reserved for the aftermath.

When our trio attacked the aforementioned city, there existed no means by which to determine the details of our devastation. A building, ere reduced to rubble, may have bustled with activity or stood completely vacant. I did not remain to overturn every wrecked cart or scrutinize each bloodstain. Since you are interested, the city magistrates (bayards, the lot of them) issued a bounty on our heads, which might have gone ignored were it not disparagingly low. This attracted a passel of feeble mercenaries, determined to subdue us, all of which failed spectacularly. Such gross underestimation is disheartening, not to mention discourteous. Our retaliation corrected their misconceptions.

I find you most correct in your preference of the violin to the lustful masses of saucy stymphalists. Fret not regarding inexperience, for I too am virginal as the newly budded snowdrop. In my culture, courtship is not a matter of tenderness but of respect. The acquisition of a mate is dependent on prowess, deeds, and wealth. Were I in want of offspring, I could seek a male of compatible prestige and engage in a bout of mutual passion (in addition to the inevitable boasting and bickering). Unfortunately, as it stands, I would rather drink goblin piss. While a female could please me well, the opposite sex has proven about as enticing as a wet boot. I've no use for boots, wet or otherwise, save those of astounding worth. Is that what you meant by disinterest in "manly features?" If you happen across one who is not an artless mumpsimus, consider the companionship of womankind.

My kind are not plentiful and those of my status and persuasion, rarer still. This was confirmed through a brief stint during which Vivek convinced me to advertise my receptiveness to other females. I received exactly three responses. The first to answer was an impudent dwarven bard, keen to prostitute herself in exchange for treasures beyond her paygrade. I put a swift end to her sultry bagpipe burlesque (horrendously flat).

The second proposition was less ridiculous, but, nonetheless, unimpressive. She was possessed of unremarkable pallor- frigid to the touch, intellectually barren, and only half my size. I would not sully myself with her. The last suitor, and the only one of my species, was somehow the most insulting. He was determined to coax me into making an exception before our subsequent battle to the death. Once it was apparent that I could not be seduced, he deigned to treat as he would another male in close proximity (by which I mean he attempted violent burglary). After that debacle, I proceeded to dismiss all hope of romance.

You would make a finer bard than that tone deaf lewdstress who presented herself to me- certainly more intelligent. Magic can be a devilish psychological game. For some, it flows spontaneously. For others, it obstinately refuses to reveal itself unless the mind adapts the optimal orientation. If you perceive your existence as magically sterile, more reclusive forms will forever elude you- untapped potential, dammed and stagnant.

Perhaps this will come as a surprise but, were I not my glorious self, it would elicit such felicity to serve as organist for the community choir of the town nearest to my home. They are an exquisite ensemble whose concerts I clandestinely frequent via polymorphing spells. The current organist will either retire or expire within the next few decades, but, in the meantime, I would be more than content to sing their fantastic repertoire. They would dare not refuse an audition, as my wealth and appearance are enough to either pay off or intimidate most anyone.

Yet what pleasure is there in music produced at spearpoint? The choir would sing with me, yes, but the camaraderie of musicianship cannot exist in terror and loathing. Alas, that is all the townsfolk have to offer me. In fact, that is all a vast majority of Toril has to offer me. It cannot be helped. Do you know the Cormanthyr Requiem? The choir will perform it this spring, accompanied by the elven Iriador Chamber Orchestra. I have learned each part to the final cadence.

Sincerely,  


A sapphic tempest of carnage and good musical taste 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Requiem in D minor, K. 626, Sequentia, Dies Irae (Mozart)   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=32bkV0o7Y7o


	11. To a historian of art and grief,

To a historian of art and grief, 

As I now regard my familiar Emberceuse, a swell of awe and disbelief begins to toss and pitch my mind. Is this dizziness of rapture or dismay? I have fancifully attributed personality to the violin and engaged in one-sided conversations more often than I care to admit (riveting discussions, I assure you). To personify an object of such dynamic beauty is effortless- nigh automatic. Yet, to know that my instrument is possessed of, honest to Oghma, memory is somehow both utterly natural and utterly mad. The thought of accessing the experiences of ancient virtuosi is surely cause for excitement. Still, there remains a terrible trepidation. 

Magic is fickle in its favor. I haven’t the faith of a cleric, the blood of a sorcerer, nor the countless hours of magical study that mark a wizard. Neither my lineage, my deeds, nor my station are, in any way, remarkable. My palace is a hovel and my entourage screams, bleats, and gnaws at my skirts. 

If Emberceuse were to select me as the vessel of their power, I would rejoice and accept without hesitation. Yet, how can I aspire to worthiness? I have ne’er stepped foot on a grand city concert stage nor played within orchestral ranks, let alone at their head. In the absence of my mentor, to study is perpetual toil. Even upon accessing magic, how would I know that it were so? Sometimes, there are moments, in practice, of complete musical sublimity. I am overcome by a focus so pure and fierce that I forget I am thinking at all. 

At its zenith, music is clarity. Music is freedom. It is freedom from doubt, from suffering, from society, even from self. I dissolve in music and the boundaries between matter- between my body, my sound, and all of sweetly shuddering existence- cease to be. I imagine that is what you heard those many years ago when your maestro played in defiance of death- all of creation in tandem vibration. How does one discern magic from music when music may seem so magical? 

Gratitude for resisting the temptation of my violin. Without it, life would deteriorate to the state of my brother’s unseasoned barley pottage- bland and only palatable for purposes of staving off starvation. Alas, I am also not expecting to be murdered anytime soon and, thus, must deny you the sport of avenging me. As it stands, I am not of interest to anyone except the sibling who covets my coin and that dastard hasn’t the heart nor the stomach to lay me low. Perhaps I come across as surly but none of the villagers would bear me a grudge. I seldom interact with them, save for business, and my dealings are always fair. 

You, in contrast, have likely cultivated a collection of enemies as vast as your collection of instruments, though not so vast as your sister’s. Your account of her misdeeds implores my pen to voice an earnest and dire declaration. She is truly an abomination. My brother was, indeed, a selfish, pilfering little louse, heedless of consequence. However, such heinous acts as you described were beyond his ken and capability. I gather there was little love in your family, what with your mother slaying your father. You say she is not excessive in cruelty and immune to pointless outbursts yet she killed her partner in a mere financial spat. Therefore, forgive me if I distrust your appraisal. Considering their exceptional propensity for homicide, it is a wonder your species has not gone extinct. 

Speaking for my own, I suppose most humans too find humor in acts of meanness. In youth, my brother and I indulged in our lot of crude mischief. Once, he poured milk and preserves into my shoes so that they would sour and fill with ants and flies overnight. In response, I gathered goat dung and sewed it into his mattress to reek mysteriously until he discovered the foul source. Summertide is particularly brutal for a nasal assault. 

Perhaps my proudest achievement in our childish campaign involved an apple and a very large beetle. With great care, I managed to insert the egg of a great horned hart beetle into the core of an unripe apple. When the apple and insect were mature, I presented them to my brother. He was meant to bite into it and be disgusted by its contents but, instead, something even more marvelous occurred. Before he could even grasp the apple it began to tremble and roll across the bench like an object possessed. In fact, I convinced him that it was possessed and his touch had awakened the spirit which dwelled within. Great hysteria and hilarity ensued until our meddling parents gossiped and a cleric appeared to exorcize our fruit. He did not find it so amusing. 

Apologies if this seems a tad presumptuous, but I believe the root of your poisonous cynicism, violent behavior, and insistence of superiority is gradually becoming illuminated. Your upbringing speaks for itself. Yet, I would seek to disprove your argument regarding the hierarchy of value in sentient lifeforms. I have heard tales of storm giant elders, towering and wise, who have lived for seven hundred years and, though their bodies are embrittled, may yet endure another century. Then, there is the gold wyrm Palarandusk, The Unseen Protector, who has seen five thousand years but whose eyes are still bright. Finally, there are the humble, mindless gelatinous cubes, which are speculated to be essentially immortal unless slain or starved. According to The Venerable Aggar’s Beastiary, there may be remaining cubes from before the first flowering (making them older than some minor deities). Shall we then herald them as supreme beings, worthy of obedience and worship? You are welcome to found the cult of the cube if it so pleases you. 

Is a rose less beautiful than a cornflower because it blooms briefly? You are a musician. To perform is to embrace the most fleeting of ephemeralities- a ripple upon the wind to flower in the ear and fade to memory. If might and longevity are your measure of value, perhaps bronze sculpture is an art better suited to your sensibilities. And what of your maestro? Did you not spare his life by virtue of a single performance- momentary and unrepeatable? Why was this man more worthy than generals and magistrates whose inscribed names and effigies adorned their city in stonework? 

Did the halfling composer, Amarus Mat, have centuries to perfect his art? Nay, the vintage of his genius was poured out young. He perished before his thirty sixth birthday yet any great lover of music would bow before his shrine. It is to him and his six hundred and twenty extant manuscripts that we owe many of the foundations of modern harmony and form. The innumerable tears drawn out by his strains would fill the loch of Dragonmere. 

In that vein, I would advise altering your standards if you should again seek a lover (unless such things no longer interest you). Your species, it seems, shares the common affliction of massive sticks up their arses. Their concept of romance as solely a function of prestige and procreation is woefully archaic (though it is shared by many humans of equal stuffiness). This is a modern world. Your teacher was a half-elf. There is recent word of an orc and gnome who are supposedly quite content together, though I do ponder the physical logistics of their pairing. Waiting for a compatible female of your species will take lifetimes you simply do not have to spare. Furthermore, your latest letter implies that your ilk does not form permanent relationships anyway so why not pursue a casual fling with a so-called lesser lifeform? Unless your females boast truly unique anatomy, the copulation bears no risk of pregnancy. 

Truth be told, I wasn’t aware that such a union (that is to say between two women) was possible. Do you know if it is commonplace or even permissible amongst humankind? I have always found women more pleasing but I did not know that it was allowed by the laws of society or nature. It is not that my village hosts an abundance of lovely maidens to admire but rather, as you so eloquently expressed, that men are about as enticing as a wet boot. I already have a pair drying at the hearth and have no want of another. I anticipate that a woman, however, may someday prove desirable (or, at the very least, acceptable). In that case, it is unfortunate that the marital veil descends upon the majority of us so early. I am certainly the eldest unwed girl in this village or the next. 

That your fancies involve the pipe organ does not surprise me in the slightest but I did not expect such fervent interest in your local community choir. They must, indeed, be exquisite if they are performing the Cormanthyr Requiem. I have never borne witness to a performance but my instructor directed me to analyze a transcription of the sequentia in the study of theory and it was not for the faint of heart (or breath). You have clearly dedicated much thought to joining this ensemble but abstain for dread of their fear and animosity. If you have polymorphed to watch their concerts I wonder that you do not simply conceal your appearance in rehearsal. Is it a matter of integrity? You are capable of masquerading as that which you are not and thus, from my perspective, your fantasy is entirely within reach. 

From, 

A musical spinster and her magical memory violin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requiem in D minor, K. 626, Sequentia, Lacrymosa (Mozart)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dy2ZWL2oxJU


	12. To the high priestess of the gelatinous cube,

To the high priestess of the gelatinous cube,

There is pleasure in your tenacious moral philosophizing. Few face me in debate and those who dare oft phrase their argument via sword or spell or vicious set of talons. Though I cannot complain of bracing combat, I do wish my foes would pause now and again for a turn of quality banter. Instead, the insults they thrust upon me are lacklustre or even complimentary (presumably unintentionally). I theorize that paladins, in particular, maintain a list of acceptable battle dialogue to prevent unlawful outburst of originality. Frankly, it is a miracle that no gods or kings or god-kings have materialized to smite me, considering the frequency with which their names are invoked. 

Occasionally, Vivek The Verdant provides satisfying discourse, despite his tendency to stray towards tedious esoteric absurdity. The great green fusspot would do well to remember that I know not how the principles of Tenth Century Avariel Enlightenment are applicable to Dwarven stoplevy economics, nor do I care to find out. For the sake of my sanity, he must ponder these questions in solitude. 

You strike me as rather independent and open-minded for a human, of which I am appreciative. However, eldest maiden in your village or not, your values betray a distinctly youthful aspect. Do not presume to fool me with the exception fallacy. Neither the genius of Amarus Mat nor the odd biology of the gelatinous cube signify the norm. Humanity itself is a young race. Their histories and dominions are brief and immature. Many fashion for themselves the grand, comforting illusion of significance and self-reliance. In reality, should a single human become separated from society, they would almost certainly die of starvation, disease, or predation, if not the sheer devastation of prolonged isolation. This trait is held in common with eusocial insects, in that their ability to accomplish anything of substance is dependent on established civilization (or at least some manner of loosely organized clan structure) 

Each individual is a miniscule cog in an impossibly intricate timepiece. From the interior, they cannot detect the passage of the hour, only adjacent cogs and the rapid whirr of their own heartbeat. When their potential is exhausted, the clockmaker would ne’er discard his masterwork, but replace those tired parts with the new generation. 

Countless souls will spend their lives oblivious to this condition. Those to whom awareness is granted respond either with indifference, denial, or unsuccessful defiance. However, the tiniest minority composed of the truly exceptional (and exceptionally fortunate) shall overcome this meagre existence. They extend themselves through magic or legacies of art, science, and conquest. These few are the ilk of the masters whose music we extoll- of Amarus Mat, Ludall Tovhen, and Joran Bosc.

Unlike humans, some beings are as a nation unto themselves- sovereigns of largely solitary lives. They needn’t pander to the writhing masses of society for survival. No, their capacity to thrive requires no cooperation but they may pluck the fruits of civilization at their leisure. In this case, power and freedom are synonymous. The ability to control your own destiny is inextricably linked to the ability of others to control you and your ability to control them. What makes one mighty or meek is merely a matter of agency. 

To be unbeholden is to be free. Complete freedom is unobtainable for we are all beholden to nature save for, mayhaps, the most ancient and potent of gods. This ideal is the ultimate ambition and reason for the unmendable rift between my sister and I. Her company was stifling. Continuing upon that course bore risk of disgrace, especially in the searing eye of mother. No longer would I uphold the mantle of prized daughter but receive disdain as a servile agent of the superior sibling. 

I should also like to remark that the murder of my father was not a rash act but entirely within reason. The severity of conflict concerning property or finances cannot be overstated. He foolishly contested mother’s claim to a share of her wealth. A duel to the death was inevitable and my late father, boundless in confidence ( yet limited in prudence), paid his dues in blood. 

Nevertheless, my species is too proud to go extinct. We are also too proud to permit mediocrity amidst our number or competition in our respective demesnes. Thus, as a race, we shall neither perish nor ever cultivate a sizable population. Weakness merits, not visitation for a healer or counselor, but the cure-all prescription of extermination from the line. You inquired as to why I do not simply polymorph in pursuit of my community choir fantasy. It is not without cause that I concealed interest in such spells from my sister.

To attend a concert I must polymorph for approximately three hours. On average, these occur thrice annually. For these anticipated events, I meticulously prepare for and monitor my comportment in the presence of the townsfolk. Were I to join the ensemble, I would be forced to polymorph for several hours, several times per week and perform tasks of musical rigor. To maintain a form so different from my own for so long a period demands concentration and considerable magical expenditure. Were I to lapse and word wound its way to the wrong ear, the consequences could prove most dire. To polymorph is to corrupt the perfection of this form - to debase oneself and, by extension, the entire species. I willingly do so for the sake of my art but, to others, it remains unthinkable and unforgivable. 

I will concede to you one point. Maestro Lyros enkindled more fondness within me than was reserved for any of my own pedigree. He was the progeny of two races held in contempt by my brethren yet I aspired to his skill, nonetheless. To me he imparted the priceless gift of musical learning. Power, I covet and respect. Beauty, I love. 

In might, there is the freedom of agency but, in music, there is the freedom of clarity. You were wise to pose the argument of clarity for, were an ultimatum issued barring one in favor of the other, I would choose music without hesitation. I am, indeed, a musician. 

You claim to lack the faith of a cleric, the blood of a sorcerer, or the knowledge and diligence of a wizard. I claim boarshit. You are diligent. How many hours of fervent, arduous study were devoted to the violin? How much technique and repertoire was committed to memory? You have faith. It belongs to the divinity of the art that inspires and empowers you, daily. Through your veins flows, not the blood of dragons or dryads or eldritch gods, but the covenant of musicianship. 

Why should Embercuse reject you? A coward waits to be deemed worthy. You must claim your own worthiness. When you play a difficult cadenza, what is it that dwells within your mind? Do you pray? Perform harmonic analysis? Wonder if you are capable or if your strings have drifted out of tune? No! You haven’t time for fretting and foolishness. There is no praying or thinking or rethinking. There is only playing and, if you have practiced well, you may play well. If you are concerned with anything other than playing, then you have already failed. In this way are music and magic alike. 

Similarly, I implore you ask me not with whom you are allowed to mate. If it pleased you to lay with women, then do so, decency be damned. Furthermore, I do not see why such unions should not be commonplace. Your kind will eagerly mingle with elves and orcs and drunkenly molest signposts. I once fought a druid who dedicated our battle to her beloved husband- a devilishly handsome blueberry bush, by her own account. Why should humanity, legendary in their lust, exclude half of their own species? It is, as you said, a modern world. Copulate with whomever you like and I, likewise, shall take my pick. It so happens that I would prefer a partner for whom I can muster an ounce of admiration. Until one appears, I shall patiently abstain. 

I wonder that your parents did not lose patience with the petty mischief you described. The cleric himself may not have been amused but his dismay was surely most amusing. My sister and I once occupied a mountain pass and deceived various adventuring parties. Through a combination of acoustics, pyrotechnics, rhetoric, and deliciously ominous atmosphere, we convinced the lot that we were a balor, demanding offerings for safe passage. At that tender age, the pair of us were diminutive in stature and no match for the experienced warriors who favored our route. Yet, this deception proved lucrative for they were as wealthy as they were formidable and as gullible as they were wealthy. 

In the spirit of reminiscence, I have taken your advice concerning Vivek to heart. Not an hour ago I sent forth a message to him requesting a rendezvous. He shall, without doubt, respond promptly in the affirmative and initiate glorious reunion- a lovely afternoon of collaborative destruction and an evening of intelligent (albeit rambling) conversation, waited upon by copious minions. Mayhaps I shall procure a decadent morsel for his ravenous appetite, as any respectable dinner quest is encouraged. Gratitude for your excellent suggestion. 

Sincerely, 

One who cannot possibly decide which instruments to bring on her day trip (the cypress harpsichord with emerald ivy filigree is a must)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Les Cyclopes, Pieces de clavecin (Rameau)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-JD5Kv2js0


End file.
